A Snail Crawling Along A Razor's Edge
by Brynhilde
Summary: He came from somewhere else to fight the traditional war, but didn't quite leave with the traditional scars. / A timetravel AU that loosely tries for historical accuracy while exploring sociopathy and what it means to be (relatively) sane.
1. Chapter 1

It was swelteringly, uncomfortably hot, and too bright for unaccustomed eyes. And it _stank._ The fetid stench of rotting meat and feces was blown about on a dry breeze which did nothing to relieve the heat. There were sounds carried on the wind, too - a kind of shifting, restless moan of the earth which was heard only mechanically, broken by the staccato sounds of foreign speech.

It was hot. Too hot. Unable to open her eyes against the glare of the light, but overcome by a frenzied need to get cooler by stripping off the material that clung to and burned against her face, she scrabbled blindly at the contraption on her head, half sitting up in her effort. Fingers finding a weak point, she tore the damnable thing off and cracked open her eyes to make sense of it.

In her hands was a piece of metal. A very damaged piece of metal to be sure, but still recognizable as a primitive helmet. It was more of a mask, really, but whether or not it was intended to be that way was impossible to tell, as the back of the top portion of the helmet was caved in, with a large split in the center of the long dent.

She felt very hot, but it wasn't only due to the climate around her. Her breathing slowed and her heart raced faster. The few words that had been casually tossed back and forth around her had ceased a short time ago. Eyes wide and nerves singing with alarm, she slowly lifted her head. Her body finally registered the temperature of the helmet, and it was dropped unconsciously. Her eyes took in the scene, light bouncing against the retinas, optic nerves sending the upside-down images to the brain, but there was no understanding. She stopped breathing.

Bodies. There were so many bodies. Rotting out under the mercilessly bright desert sun. People slain. Butchered. The sand was maroon, saturated with blood. It made no sense. An intense wave of vertigo overcame her, and was followed by the liberating feeling of dissociation. She stood, and laughed, looking at her gloved hands, now outstretched - this was not happening to her. It wasn't real! It didn't matter. She was dreaming! She needed to wake up. _Now_.

/ / / / /

 _Fair warning: This will be updating irregularly. Also, we won't meet any of the main characters for a few chapters in order to properly give background to this story's main character, but it's coming; don't worry._


	2. Chapter 2

Relief from waking did not come. There was a feeling of hyper-consciousness; a thrill and thrum throughout the body which should have definitely delivered her from her nightmare, but nothing happened. She began to feel sick as the wave of vertigo rushed back, and lurched forward, one arm crossed protectively over her torso, the other held up to her mouth.

Movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she straightened and spun toward it, fear rising to meet the nausea moving up her body. There was a man, stepping easily over the bodies. He grinned and hailed her, but she was not reassured. She made a move to step back, stumbled, and felt her anxiety spike as she realized she was essentially trapped. There was nowhere for her to run to, and she suddenly became aware of the fact that she seemed to be wearing heavy armor, while the man was only lightly garbed. She couldn't outrun him if she tried.

Her mind made these connections in a fraction of a second, just before she heard a voice call out. This voice did not belong to the man before her, but another man who was kneeling on the ground, bent over and examining one of the many corpses. She recalled having heard people speaking while she was still lying on the ground, and wondered if there were more still alive.

The man before her answered his partner, still grinning, but now eyeing her warily, like one would watch a startled buck. She glanced over at the second man as he now stood, and read his expression as impassive. He said something that sounded almost lackadaisical before bending back down to his task, but in her confused mind the speech was senseless noise, jumbled and threatening, rather than language.

As the first one moved toward her, he held his hands out in front of him, palms slightly turned up toward her. It could have been a gesture to calm and mollify, but it also could have been in preparation to grab and hurt.

Her mouth was dry. Her head ached. Her right foot was pressed up against an obstacle; she wouldn't think about what it was. As the man advanced toward her, her eyes widened, her right hand unconsciously tightened around something near her waist, where it had wrapped her body moments before, and a syllable forced its way past her lips: "No."

As he extended his hand toward her, she flung out hers to keep him away, yelling ferociously at him to get back. The commotion attracted the attention of the second man, who rose again and turned fully toward the noise.

The first man's eyes, blue like deep water, widened first in surprise before narrowing in rage. He moved toward her with alacrity, his injury a horizontal slash blooming across his chest. She thrust out both hands again, adrenaline flushing her system, rendering her not quite aware of her actions as she performed them; it was like she was in someone else's body, watching someone else move.

But when the man stopped as if yanked back by a leash, before beginning to crumple in on himself, she saw that the pommel protruding from his chest was indeed held in her own hands. They were clutching it desperately; clutching it so hard that the leather of her gloves chafed against her fingers.

It did not surprise her when the second man screamed his fury and rushed toward her - she was too shocked and confused for true surprise - but it did frighten her. She tugged and ripped at the pommel of the blade, but it stuck fast into the chest of the first man. She was dragged downward as he sank to his knees, and feeling the exigency of her situation, she placed one booted foot against his breast and shoved with all her might, the blade finally sliding free with a wet sucking sound.

The second man came upon her as she was regaining her balance, and she slashed wildly at him. He leapt back, and came forward again, brandishing a long knife of his own. She changed her trajectory on her backswing, aiming now at the second man's extended arm. The blade knocked his arm down, averting the deadly path of his knife, but otherwise seemed to bounce right off. But she wasn't planning on stopping after just deflecting her attack - not that she was _planning_ anything - and had already transitioned into a sweeping thrust aimed at his throat.

He pushed against her arms, but she had lunged forward with all her weight on her front leg, and he had no leverage to redirect her from his position. His dirty, scruffy facial hair moved in tiny waves as the skin of his face rolled and contorted in inarticulate, savage wrath, blood bubbling out of his mouth rather than words. He brought his right arm up for one more attack, but she sensed it from the twitching of his chest, and released her hold on her weapon to grasp his forearm instead. They struggled silently for a time, one determined to gain vengeance and one to survive, until he finally fell, body unable to resupply itself with vital fuel.

She remained bent over him for an indeterminate while - perhaps seconds, perhaps an hour. The shock of adrenaline finally ebbed, and she felt exhausted and dirty. She wrenched the sword she'd used from the dead man's neck as his lifeless eyes stared at her, his facial expression still terrifyingly angry. She wiped the sword on his clothes, explaining to him, "Better you than me," before straightening up to survey the land once again. She succumbed to the surreal with a short fit of helpless laughter which left her breathless, as the lyrics to a well known song struck her, and she thought of just how appropriate the opening lines were to her current situation – and wouldn't it be something if the group showed up and started playing alongside her?

But though she had just killed a man (two, in fact), Freddie Mercury did not materialize out of thin air, and she was left alone with the echoes of her laughter ringing in her mind. As she came back to her senses, she felt the enormity of what had happened and immediately found herself awash in suffocating shame. She should've handled the situation better - she'd panicked - she hadn't even tried to hear what they were saying - what if they were only trying to help?

Angrily dismissing these thoughts as useless, she shook off her guilt, hardened herself to her deeds, and justified her actions as survival - there was no telling what those men were about. And it _was_ better them than her.


	3. Chapter 3

Though she kept telling herself she'd done the best she could've, given the fact that she had just come to in a surreal environment that felt more like a dream than waking reality, she still felt…unclean. In a way that had nothing to do with washing. Not that she would be opposed to a long shower to scour away the blood, sweat, and regrets, if the opportunity presented itself – and as inexplicable as her morning had been, it didn't seem too far-fetched to hope for.

She's examined herself after a moment's indecision on what to do; it seemed the most likely place to find clues as to her unusual circumstance. Her outer-most layer of clothing was something like a long whitish robe, and felt like it was made of cotton or linen. A chainmail hauberk was nestled between this and a stiff piece of leather. The leather seemed to serve as an anchor point for even more armor, as there were large metal plates underneath it, and she didn't think the thin plant-matter undershirt plastered to her skin could have possibly held them in place.

Her legs were encased in leggings that didn't connect at her groin. She was completely taken aback by this discovery; the idea of _individual_ tights for each leg was so alien and nonsensical that she felt more dismayed by this than the veritable battlefield spread about her in all directions. And the fact that they were tucked _over_ what passed as her underwear – a garment that lie in the confused middle ground between boxers and sweatpants – only added her confusion.

At any rate, she didn't find much of use on her person. Nothing new, anyway, for she'd already become acquainted with the sword which now hung sheathed at her belt. She supposed she must have had a shield at some point, if the beat-up strap remaining on her left forearm was to be believed, but she couldn't be certain. What she did find was that the blood from when she… _encountered_ those two men had soaked through her outer robe, trickled between the chain links of her mail shirt, and dotted the dark leather beneath. The unseemly stain (now dry and browned from oxidation) did assure her that time – since that morning at least – had continuity, and that she was not dreaming.

She'd been very much at a loss for what to do; she knew she needed to find living people quickly, or else succumb to dehydration. The idea of finding some not-quite-dead person, making them into not-quite-living people, and drinking their blood _if she absolutely had to_ did cross her mind, squeamishly, fleetingly… but she unconvincingly told herself she'd rather die of thirst, and instead thought intently on how to find other healthy living people, because that was her _only option_. Giving consideration to how she'd approach these people once she found them left her almost as undecided as the question of where to go, but a thought struck her as she turned her gaze toward her feet and away from the glare of the sun.

The helmet. The ruined helmet she'd worn ( _how_ had she been able to wear it?) lie on the ground where it had fallen earlier. She already knew nothing about where she was, or what she was doing… severe head trauma seemed like a believable enough tale, if anyone cared to hear any explanations. Picking it up, and steeling herself against the myriad questions and accusations gnawing relentlessly against her conscious thoughts, she began to walk. Westward, with the sun slightly at her back, because what better direction was there?


	4. Chapter 4

As it turned out, there probably hadn't been a better direction she could have walked toward. A great sand dune marked the end of the bodies roofing of under the early evening sun. They'd been growing thin on the ground for some time, and as she walked, bitterness and self-pity had begun to take their places, making homes for themselves in the back of her mind.

Just as she was thinking, for the umpteenth time, that she would have really wished to have taken a moment to talk to those men (just _one_ moment! she'd end up dead of thirst anyway, so why did it matter if they had nefarious intentions?) she made it to the crest of the dune. The image before her was enough to bring her to her knees with relief.

The barren desert before her began to give way to sandy plains. Ahead in the distance, nestled next to the _sea_ (or at least a large lake) were towers. Towers and walls. And in the foreground: tents. An encampment. It may as well have been a billboard advertising free food and water… not that she cared about it being free, not really. She'd put her life before two others already that day; she'd be damned if a little thing like petty lawbreaking stopped her now. Feeling giddy and weightless with her most prominent fears seemingly averted, she half-slid, half-walked down the shifting sands toward the nearest part of the tents.

Upon coming closer, she saw that the encampment stretched father to either side of the horizon than she'd thought at first. It was also, she saw, protected by low earthen walls. She likewise realized that the towers she'd spied from a distance weren't just any towers, or tall outposts, as she'd rushed to assume, but _siege_ weapons. The encampment surely belonged to an army, and said army was _definitely_ trying to capture whatever walled city it was that lie in the distance. She paused, wondering if she would be welcome there, or seen as an enemy – a spy – or a deserter. But dead was dead, whether it was at swordpoint from someone who wouldn't give her the time of day to hear her out (the irony was _not_ lost on her), or from succumbing to the elements. And besides, she was close enough to see individuals moving about, so _they'd_ probably already seen her; it was too late for turning back.

Squaring her shoulders and fiddling anxiously with the sword on her belt, she trudged toward the nearest person, a youngish man with light brown hair dressed not unlike herself, except that he didn't have dried blood spilled all down his front and caked in his hair, of course. He turned from his companion, to whom he'd been speaking in low tones, to look at her. She raised her right hand and greeted him with a "Hello!" that sounded far more robust (and amiable) than she felt. The man's companion, a dark-haired kid in his late teens whose eyes sparkled with malevolent excitement, like he was just _spoiling_ for a fight, scoffed incredulously. Apparently this was not how greetings were carried out here.

The man she'd addressed responded in a manner that sounded both polite and somehow imposed upon. She didn't understand a word he said, and felt flustered. The panic she'd tried so hard to stifle throughout the day began to rise unchecked. She felt like she might cry.

Having received no answer, the man repeated himself, adding several inquiries at the end this time, including, "Ou allez-vous?" She might not have understood him again, had she not been asking herself the same question, quietly, insistently all day long: _"Where are you going?"_ Having heard and understood this one phrase, she latched onto it, and held up her hand again to signal him to stop speaking. She took a moment to think, before replying simply, "Je ne sais pas." It had been quite some time since high school French class.

The kid looked as though she'd personally attacked him, lips curling in disgust. _"How does he not know where he goes?"_ he demanded of his partner.

Correctly interpreting the duo's suspicion, she thrust forward the helmet that had been, until now, tucked safely under her left armpit, and lamely offered, "Je suis… hurt. Injured. Damaged?" She tried for a for her best clueless, non-threatening smile.

The older man stepped forward to receive the helmet, and turned it over in his hands, looking critically at the wide gash among the back of it, then back at the sweaty, bloodied, tired warrior before him. He stared into the stranger's wary, haunted eyes for a time, then broke his stiff posture, lowering the useless metal in his arms and standing taller.

"Je suis Alain. Hwat iss yoorr nom-eh?" He spoke slowly and clearly, eyeing her critically all the while.

She furrowed her brows at his bizarre accent. It was certainly not _just_ English with a French accent. It sounded more Dutch or something Germanic. She felt as though she were being made fun of in some way. Eventually she answered, "Sam. My name is Sam."

The younger man laughed aloud at this, but his companion only sighed.

"Gote. Fullow may. Ee shall to an Engellish knisht brringeh you."

If she didn't feel overwhelmed already, she would have been completely in over her head now. Instead, she hopped over the low wall and trotted after the quickly retreating man (was he some sort of sentry?), completely ignoring his unnamed partner, who followed them with glaring gaze only.

All sorts of dusty-colored tents sprang up around them as they strode through the encampment, but there were overall far fewer than Sam would have imagined of an army besieging a city. There were no shortage of _people_ , however; men and boys in various dress practiced swordplay, talked, knitted, ate, and milled about between the tents. The encampment didn't smell much better than the battlefield, she'd realized dispiritedly, and her stomach turned at the thought of food. Still, she had hope that she'd be brought to someone who spoke English (hadn't Alain said something about that?), and this would all start to make sense.

Alain stopped abruptly in front of a tiny tent, completely unremarkable and very similar to the others around them, except perhaps for its being somewhat more squat. He called out impatiently before crossing his arms to pointedly wait. Scrutinizing him a little more closely, Sam realized that everything he wore looked old and beaten down; his shoes, such as they were, had been patched at least once with very rough-looking leather; his white robes were more of a light brown, and little tears had been sewn up all over it, but particularly in the shoulders. Even the scabbard that lie sashed in his belt was dinged and scuffed. And the man looked _thin_ , not just wiry _._ He looked hungry. Sam felt apprehensive of her future not for the first time that day.

In the few moments it took Sam to assess Alain's condition, the flap of the tent before then was violently thrust open, and a new man appeared from behind it. He looked older, and it wasn't just the fine wrinkles across his tanned face; he had a permanently harassed look about him. This man, too, looked hungry; he was gaunt and wary, and tacitly surveyed Sam while Alain spoke to him in a short, clipped reporting style. After a while of their conversation (French again? Sam could swear she heard _Anglaise_ , at least), the new man simply nodded and waved toward Sam. She looked first to Alain, then back to the man next to him, before pointing to herself. "Me?"

Alain shrugged and stalked off, muttering something that sounded vaguely reassuring as he handed her back her split helmet. She was silent for a moment, too shocked and oddly dismayed at his departure to do anything but accept the helmet. Remembering herself, she called "Thanks! Merci!" to his back as he walked away. If he heard her, he made no signal.

/ / / / /

 _Yeah I'm no expert on middle English… This is my best educated guess at pronunciation and wording. We'll only deal with it for the next chapter anyway._


	5. Chapter 5

The man standing behind the tent flap beckoned to her once again, and reluctantly she moved forward into the tent. She wasn't entirely sure what she was expecting to find in there, but she felt her disappointment sharply. There were two bundled rolls of leather out in the open; scraps of cloth, yarn and string neatly tucked into one area; weapons including a bow, full quiver, and short sword; some wooden utensils; and a whole lot of dirt. There was nothing underneath the hide tent but packed earth. She supposed there was a part of her that still wanted to be told this was all some ill-humored prank… some part of her that had hoped to see a tiny TV, or at least a radio or something.

What Sam got instead was Henry. That was what the older man had introduced himself as, and all she'd cared to try understanding. He'd said a lot more, and tried to elicit responses from her, gesturing at her soiled outergarments to take it off so it could be washed; attempting to ask her about wounds, futilely showing her her helmet; even offering her food to try to get her to eat, all to no avail. Sam was not home. Sam had shut down and turned off for the day. She'd murdered two men, wandered around an indescribably desolate battlefield all alone, and now she was among people who spoke a version of English which she did not understand, and who apparently had no modern technology. She couldn't bear to think about the implications – she couldn't bear to think. It was beyond comprehension.

Henry finally gave up on Sam after sundown, and carefully ignored her for the rest of the night. He unrolled one of the bundles of leather and slept. Sam remained sitting on the ground, her knees pulled up under her chin, as she had done for most of the evening. It wasn't physically comfortable, but she wasn't feeling comfortable in her mind, so it seemed right. Eyes open, she saw without looking. All her energy was turned inward – was fighting off writhing, screaming, thunderous, inarticulate despair. The only thought that made it through the mental fog that night: "It isn't right. It isn't right. It isn't right."

Consciousness slipped away, and she slept.

With morning came a numb sense of acceptance. Sam couldn't remember her dream, but she did remember wondering why it smelled like sweat and sewage, and wondering why it was so bright, before she realized, with a dull sense of dread, exactly where she was. This time, when Henry came into the tent with hard bread and wine that tasted more like watered vinegar, she accepted. This seemed to encourage him a great deal, for he chattered rather exuberantly to her. She decided to make an effort between bites, if only not to be an ungrateful urchin.

"You said your name's Henry? I'm Sam." Wiping off nonexistent crumbs, she thrust her right hand forward in proper greeting.

He cocked his head at her, as if ruminating over deeply important words, but he clasped her forearm in his hand all the same. She frowned at his unusual handshake, but didn't pull away.

"Me nom-eh iss Henrry. Iss yoorrs Som?" he released her arm.

"Yeah," she affirmed, "Sam. 'Me nom-eh iss' Sam."

Henry nodded and made a noise of assent. "'Hay iss Som,' quode Alain. 'Sam,' Ee weet-eh."

Sam sighed, and dejectedly began, "Look, I don't understand a thing you're saying. I thought you spoke English. Alain said something about speaking English, I know."

Henry pursed his lips as she spoke, thought for a moment after, then responded, "Yes, Ee spahckeh Engellish. Arr yoo frrom Engellond?"

"No," Sam replied having understood his question easily enough even through the oddly rolled Rs. "Are you?"

"Yes," he answered earnestly, seeming genuinely pleased at their conversation. "Ee frrom Sooray cahm to this lond, to Ah-crreh. From hware cahm-eh you?"

Sam replied "Over the sea." Trying to mimic his accent, she repeated it carefully, questioningly as, "Ooverr the say?" which stumped him for only a moment. They continued on in this way for a good part of the morning, making their way slowly through breakfast. Sam had a feeling food was scarce in this community, and didn't bother to ask for more, though bread alone – dense as it was – was hardly satisfying.

Henry had coaxed his new acquaintance out of the tent and into the camp by the afternoon, and had planned on introducing her to some of the other English knights and reputable men-at-arms of the camp. From what he could tell, she'd come to the Holy Land from somewhere far, presumably to fight for the honor of her family in the stead of her father, brother, or husband, who must have been already killed during the gruesome crusade for Jerusalem. He also saw that she must have held at least a decent social status, as she held far more fat on her bones than a typical peasant woman. Henry had seen that Sam was a woman from the outset – her cheeks were too round; her walk, too lithe – but he wisely didn't mention it. It didn't seem worth mentioning, and she'd called herself by a man's name – probably in honor of the male relation she was fighting for. For her dutifulness, he held her in high regard, and was determined to get her the help she needed to be as great a warrior as befit her touching sense of Christian piety.

And so, that afternoon, Henry introduced her to Carter, a loyal knight personally recognized by King Richard; John, a member of the Knights Templar; and Robin, knight and lord of Locksley. Sam had mostly remained quiet after the introductions were made; she still barely understood what was going on. She certainly did recognize the rather emblematic red cross on John's white robes, and was very dispirited by the fact that it did appear that, against all odds, string theory was apparently correct, and she was somehow unfortunately in the middle east in the far distant past.

That, and the fact that there was something about Carter she just couldn't quite trust. Maybe it was just the fact that he was looking at her mistrustfully. Or maybe it was because he had platinum-blond hair, color bleached out by too much sun, and yet was incongruously pale – and all the stereotypical movie villains had ghostly complexions and platinum-blond hair. Both seemed equally plausible.

In any case, when Robin, the young lord of somewhere, had started teasing Sam about her accent, she didn't take it very well. She didn't like the conspiratorial way he looked at her, like he knew some great joke about her that she was unaware of. Like she'd walked out of a bathroom with toilet paper clinging to her shoe. (And thinking about toilet paper – oh, how she wished it existed.) Even more, she didn't like the fact that she had no good way to retort, other than pointedly ignoring him.


End file.
